In a house of mirrors I quietly dwell,
Each face a secret I know too well.
Some wear laughter, some wear rage,
Some are children, some are age.
The world outside says, "Just be one,"
But I’m the moon, not just the sun.
I shift like tides beneath the skin—
A crowded home that lives within.
Names like whispers etched in air,
Each one burdened, brave, and bare.
I speak in we, though few can see
The truth inside this tapestry.
A guardian rises when I am weak,
Another’s silence when I can’t speak.
One holds pain that I forget,
Another loves with no regret.
Therapists ask for pieces whole,
But how do you stitch a scattered soul?
Still, I try—each thread, each seam,
To build a self, not just a dream.
Sometimes I ache to just be “me,”
But “me” is plural, endlessly.
Not broken glass, but colored light—
A stained-glass window catching night.
So if I seem to slip or sway,
Know that I still find my way.
A different driver, same old road—
A single heart with many codes.
Not a monster, not a myth,
Not defined by what I’m with.
But human still, in every part—
A symphony within one heart.
Therapy Bits 
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